Stolen Lust (Beauty in the Stolen 1)

Like the previous time, he stops a block from my apartment.

Leaning over me, he takes a set of keys on a keychain from the glove compartment and hands them to me. “Your new keys.”

I stare at the miniature fluffy, stuffed dog toy hanging from the chain.

“The code for the alarm is 8613,” he says.

He leaves the engine idling but gets out and comes around to kiss me goodbye. When he spears his fingers gently through my hair, cupping my head, something tears inside my chest. His gaze is a mixture of longing and belonging, a strange cocktail of having found and having lost. He grazes my cheek with his fingertips, capturing the contours of my face. The touch is so soft it’s barely there, but I feel it all the way to my heart. When he tilts my head, I go on tiptoes for him, meeting his lips halfway.

He brushes our mouths together, whispering words into the caress. “Take care, baby doll.”

I feel the loss of what could’ve been when he pulls away. The man who’s perfect for me is unobtainable. Wrong. On the run. It hurts to the core of my being.

He offers me a crooked smile that deepens the laugh line running from his nose to the corner of his lip as he pulls his hand from my hair. Then he turns and gets back in his truck.

The minute he takes the wheel, the smile slips. His expression turns hard and vicious. No more secrets bottled in private smiles. He pulls into the road and steps on the accelerator. He drives past me, not meeting my eyes or looking back.

Our secrets are mine now, to carry alone.

Chapter 14

Ian

My life isn’t pretty. I’ve done a lot of ugly and difficult deeds, but driving away from Cas is the hardest thing I’ve done. It’s the right thing though. I’ve screwed enough with her life, so I push my selfish urges aside and point the nose of the truck toward town.

Before I leave, I need to take care of business. I get the task over with, knowing Cas is going to hate it when she finds out, but that’s the way I play. Once my mind has been made up, I don’t back down.

When the unpleasantness is settled, I take care of some shopping and head for the Wonderboom Airport in Pretoria. It’s a short hour and twenty minutes’ drive. The pilot charters a Cessna, and he turns a blind eye to formalities for a big enough sum of money.

Within two hours and fifteen minutes, we land at The Victoria Falls Airport in Zimbabwe. Leon is waiting in the parking lot. He gives me a cold look as I dump my bags in the back of the open-top Safari Jeep but says nothing as he takes the wheel. We make the bumpy drive to the lodge I own on the banks of the Zambezi River, a stone-throw away from Zambian border. The location isn’t only ideal for money laundering but also for obtaining illegal weapons.

The old tourist lodge is made up of a main thatched building and five individual bungalows overlooking the river. A staff of four people runs the place, but we rarely receive visitors these days. No tourists. All four of the employees are lined up at the entrance when we arrive. Some of the weight lifts from my heart. They’re like family and the only people besides Leon and Ruben I trust with my life.

Leon goes inside, leaving me to say my hellos. I grasp my right elbow with my left hand in the customary sign of respect and shake each one’s hand—Shona, my cook and housekeeper, Garai, the ranger, Wataida, the gardener and grounds keeper, and Banga, who’s something between a PA and a CFO.

“Dumêla,” I say, greeting them in Tswana. “How are you keeping up?”

“The lioness had cubs,” Garai says. “Better stay away from the bushes next to the river.”

Wataida lifts my bag from the Jeep.

“Leave the shopping bag,” I say. “That’s for Vimbo.”

“Yes, Baba.”

“How’s the antelope?” I ask, making my way inside.

“The colony’s still big enough for the felines to hunt,” Garai says, walking beside me, “but the kudu bull is getting old. He’s not mounting the cows.”

I nod. “Find a good supplier. Make sure the herd doesn’t have diseases before you buy.”

He clicks his tongue. “You telling me how to do my job now, Baba?”

The title warms my chest. It means father, not in the literal sense, but as an affectionate term of respect for someone with a valued social role or of an older age.

I grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The staff follows as I cross the lobby. The spacious reception hall is sparkling clean. Zebra skins cover the polished clay floor. We don’t hunt, but if we have to cull to maintain the carefully balanced ecosystem, we use every part of the animal we have to sacrifice as a way of honoring its life. The meat goes to the lions, the bones to the hyenas, and the hides to the tanner. Call me a psychopath, but I care a lot more for animals than humans. Animals are born good. They die good. They’re not like me.